he was heading toward Fishermanâs Wharf.
In San Francisco the tourist season never ended so the Wharf was always mobbed, particularly in the evening, when the restaurants were serving dinner. The closer you got, the bigger the crowds and the more the streets belonged to them. She would have to leave the car.
She crossed the intersection, drove two more blocks and pulled over to the curb.
On the bay side of Jefferson she took up her station behind a rack of T-shirts under the awning of a tourist shop and waited, scanning the sidewalks, with a good view in all four directions, almost hoping that Tregear had only gone out for a pack of gum and the sports pages and was by now safely back in his apartment.
Assuming the guy was a serious suspect, she had no business doing this; if he spotted her it would only complicate the investigation. The problem was, she couldnât help herself.
She just had to get inside his head a little. She wanted a sense of him, something to go with the way those eyes had focused in on the cameraâfearless, almost amused. The joker who takes the trouble to have his victim found wearing a pair of red satin heels.
Besides, he wasnât going to spot her. Why should he? He had no reason to believe he wasnât absolutely in the clear and, until a few hours ago, he had been. He was clever, but he wasnât a mind reader.
And, anyway, he wasnât going to spot her because she had probably missed him. If he was going anywhere on the Wharf he would have to pass this intersection. It had probably been seven or eight minutes since she had seen him coming out of his front door, so where the hell was he?
Childishly, she was disappointed, as if she had been stood up by a date. She had felt something, an excitement, and now it was gone. She didnât have a lover to go home to, but she had had Tregearâbrieflyâher very own quasi suspect. But not now.
And then, there he was, strolling up the street toward her, with all the careless self-possession of a man with nothing on his mind or conscience. Ellen stood perfectly still, hardly breathing, as he passed by on the sidewalk, close enough that she could almost have reached out and touched him. He never glanced at her.
Aside from a fleeting glimpse of the man on disk, this was the first chance Ellen had to take a good look at him, and she had no trouble understanding how women might be willing to put themselves in his power. He was not handsome in any conventional way, but he was attractive. He had a small, rather thin mouth, but his face, which was angular and hard and appeared a trifle sunburned, was dominated by his eyes. His eyes, for those few seconds at least, were far from cruel. Deep set and shaded beneath heavy eyebrows, they were somewhere between blue and gray and seemed to suggest that they had seen too much. What they reflected back to the world was something almost like compassion.
And, God, he was a treat to watch. His every movement was graceful, so that he made crossing the street look like something out of a Fred Astaire movie. The man was elegantâthere was no other word for it.
It wasnât until he had passed, as she was looking at his back, that she observed he had a newspaper tucked under his right arm.
She counted to thirty before she came out onto the sidewalk. He was three-quarters of a block away, almost lost to sight in the evening foot traffic. She didnât begin to follow until he had crossed the street.
He made it easy for her and went to the Cannery, which was a big, open structure with lots of corners and enormous cement pillars to hide behind. He couldnât have been nicer about itâhe took a table out on the patio, crossed his legs and opened the newspaper. With the sports pages open in front of him like a sail, he seemed to think he had the universe to himself. It was several seconds before the waiter could attract his attention to take his order.
âYour usual?â
On
In San Francisco the tourist season never ended so the Wharf was always mobbed, particularly in the evening, when the restaurants were serving dinner. The closer you got, the bigger the crowds and the more the streets belonged to them. She would have to leave the car.
She crossed the intersection, drove two more blocks and pulled over to the curb.
On the bay side of Jefferson she took up her station behind a rack of T-shirts under the awning of a tourist shop and waited, scanning the sidewalks, with a good view in all four directions, almost hoping that Tregear had only gone out for a pack of gum and the sports pages and was by now safely back in his apartment.
Assuming the guy was a serious suspect, she had no business doing this; if he spotted her it would only complicate the investigation. The problem was, she couldnât help herself.
She just had to get inside his head a little. She wanted a sense of him, something to go with the way those eyes had focused in on the cameraâfearless, almost amused. The joker who takes the trouble to have his victim found wearing a pair of red satin heels.
Besides, he wasnât going to spot her. Why should he? He had no reason to believe he wasnât absolutely in the clear and, until a few hours ago, he had been. He was clever, but he wasnât a mind reader.
And, anyway, he wasnât going to spot her because she had probably missed him. If he was going anywhere on the Wharf he would have to pass this intersection. It had probably been seven or eight minutes since she had seen him coming out of his front door, so where the hell was he?
Childishly, she was disappointed, as if she had been stood up by a date. She had felt something, an excitement, and now it was gone. She didnât have a lover to go home to, but she had had Tregearâbrieflyâher very own quasi suspect. But not now.
And then, there he was, strolling up the street toward her, with all the careless self-possession of a man with nothing on his mind or conscience. Ellen stood perfectly still, hardly breathing, as he passed by on the sidewalk, close enough that she could almost have reached out and touched him. He never glanced at her.
Aside from a fleeting glimpse of the man on disk, this was the first chance Ellen had to take a good look at him, and she had no trouble understanding how women might be willing to put themselves in his power. He was not handsome in any conventional way, but he was attractive. He had a small, rather thin mouth, but his face, which was angular and hard and appeared a trifle sunburned, was dominated by his eyes. His eyes, for those few seconds at least, were far from cruel. Deep set and shaded beneath heavy eyebrows, they were somewhere between blue and gray and seemed to suggest that they had seen too much. What they reflected back to the world was something almost like compassion.
And, God, he was a treat to watch. His every movement was graceful, so that he made crossing the street look like something out of a Fred Astaire movie. The man was elegantâthere was no other word for it.
It wasnât until he had passed, as she was looking at his back, that she observed he had a newspaper tucked under his right arm.
She counted to thirty before she came out onto the sidewalk. He was three-quarters of a block away, almost lost to sight in the evening foot traffic. She didnât begin to follow until he had crossed the street.
He made it easy for her and went to the Cannery, which was a big, open structure with lots of corners and enormous cement pillars to hide behind. He couldnât have been nicer about itâhe took a table out on the patio, crossed his legs and opened the newspaper. With the sports pages open in front of him like a sail, he seemed to think he had the universe to himself. It was several seconds before the waiter could attract his attention to take his order.
âYour usual?â
On
Similar Books
